


the very peculiarity of instinct

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Convent Husbands, Gen, Gossip, Madeleine Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fauchelevent and Javert find common interests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinaed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/gifts).



> ironically a lot of this was based off of [this meta idea](http://cinaed.tumblr.com/post/60588167943/fauchelevent-madeleine-and-gossip-in-m-sur-m) cinaed put together ages ago
> 
> so i am deeply indebted and i am also sorry

Fauchelevent would remember that day for quite some time, and for a multitude of reasons. It was mid-afternoon, late January, the fading light pale and weak. Frigid midwinter air seeped through the door and crept in through the cracks, but his coat was still warm and thick and not threadbare, and it kept the chill at bay.

Madeleine had been the last customer of the day. The first and the last, in truth, but there had been many slow days as of late and this Madeleine was a welcome face. There was little remarkable about him save for his build, muscular and broad across the shoulders and chest; Fauchelevent looked at him and saw only a laborer, whose uncertain and halting introduction did little to dispel that notion.

The documents Madeleine proffered were somewhat more interesting. “You are buying the old jet-black factory?” Fauchelevent inquired. A slow nod. Fauchelevent tutted. “It is a true waste,” he said, stamping the papers one after the other, accidentally spattering ink on a corner as he signed his name – “this town has always had its troubles, monsieur, but I am old enough that I can remember days when winters did not seem so long, when there were buyers from all around to gain from what we had to offer. Oh, of course –” he lifted a sheet that had stuck to another, and added a last mark he had neglected – “there is market enough for the jet. No doubt about it. But the raw material, monsieur, well, that is where the trouble lies! Far too costly, and the prices those in Paris are willing to pay do not even begin to cover it…”

Madeleine’s silence did not deter Fauchelevent from continuing on his rambles, jumping from complaining about the sorry state of the jet markets to a more general complaint, on the lack of business for any honest man these days, and then again, to what a pity it was that good businesses were suddenly finding themselves in want of customers through no fault of their own – only that so many were moving away, and now only the most loyal patrons were now relied upon to keep these shops afloat – “Take this snuff,” Fauchelevent said, barely breaking the flow of his speech to produce a tin and sniff it, briskly, a pinch in each nostril. “It is fine stuff, monsieur. I would buy it cheaper, perhaps, at another location, but I know the tobacconist, I have been going to him for twenty years. I cannot simply allow him to go to ruin.”

He could not stop the bitterness from creeping into his voice. Customers had been vanishing, slowly but surely, and it was pitifully sad that a single client warranted celebration. Fauchelevent stamped the last paper; Madeleine paid and left.

But his name remained. In the ledger where Fauchelevent kept a record of his customers, there, only a few names from the very end, was Madeleine – mocking him every time he opened it, mocking him more and more as the name, Madeleine, spun through the streets, borne on winds of gossip and rumor, carrying with it stories of the new factory – a new start – many men finding employment, many children now with roofs over their heads, bread in their mouths, profits increasing every day, Madeleine walking the streets with his pockets filled with banknotes. And Fauchelevent packed away his ledgers for the final time, and bought with the last of his money a cart and horse. His office was boarded up; his new one was a street-corner, a back alley, anywhere to draw his threadbare coat around himself and take a quick pinch of snuff.

A year passed, then another; Madeleine prospered. Fauchelevent did not.


	2. Chapter 2

Had anyone been watching, they made a strange pair indeed: the small ex-notary, face haggard but eyes still bright and clever, words spilling from him like out of a punctured wineskin, hurrying to keep up with the wide strides of his companion; the man beside like a mountain that had deigned to move but not do much else, face stony, arms stiff at his sides. Neither man's coat was particularly well cared for.

Fauchelevent had found others to share in his grievances, at first. In wine-shops and behind public places there were men enough who also resented and suspected the stranger who had come to their town. He had learned of his mysterious appearance, how in their gratitude for his rescuing two children from a fire no one had questioned Madeleine as to his origins or intentions. There was plenty to find suspicious about him - yet the tales of Madeleine would always be tempered with stories of his good works. The hospital, the pharmacy, children living free of sickness, with roofs over their heads and bread in their mouths. Awards and recognition came his way, yet Madeleine always refused! A good man, a great man, the savior of this town...

Slowly, fewer and fewer were willing to lend an ear. Fauchelevent's audience dwindled to only a handful. Still he persisted.

One day he had managed to corner two old men: an acquaintance, Noel, and a friend of his that Fauchelevent did not know. Joubert seemed to have become deafer in the time since Fauchelevent had seen him last, nodding placidly at Fauchelevent's every word; the friend stared at the sky as though hoping for an enormous bird to snatch him away.

At last, despite Fauchelevent's best efforts, Noel's friend nodded politely, seized Joubert by the arm, and nearly sprinted away, Fauchelevent's last words - "This Madeleine is hiding something, no doubt!" echoing in the suddenly empty street.

Fauchelevent frowned after them. "Mark my words," he said, half to himself, and reached into his pocket for his snuffbox.

"Fauchelevent." The voice from behind startled him, and his hand flew out of his pocket; the snuffbox went with it, his fingertips barely grazing it before it struck the ground and bounced open, spilling half its contents on the street. Fauchelevent dropped to his knees, tutting in dismay.

"Oh, the devil!" He snatched up the snuffbox and dusted it off. "For heaven's sake, monsieur," he added tetchily, turning to face whoever had startled him, "have some care when creeping up on an old man like..."

His voice died away. "Oh." Hastily, he bobbed his head. "Inspector - good day - what is the matter?"

At first, Javert said nothing, only stared at him from under the brim of his hat, arms crossed. Then: "Do you know much about Monsieur Madeleine?" Javert pronounced the last words with a sort of grimness, as though it had to be forced from him under duress; it was a sentiment Fauchelevent rarely heard anymore attached to the saintly syllables of Monsieur Madeleine. Instantly, Javert became approachable.

"Monsieur Inspector," Fauchelevent said. "The things that I do not know! Or rather: the things I know, but that no one will attend to. I have heard he speaks to every little Savoyard he happens upon, inquires as to a specific fellow, some name that I do not know. Very peculiar!" He came closer to Javert and laid his hand on Javert's wrist; Javert stiffened, his sideburns seeming to bristle like a hound's.

"The police must investigate, there is something very strange about this fellow," Fauchelevent continued, his chatter holding a nervous edge now. He released his grip on Javert's sleeve. "Certainly nothing good can come of him."

Javert nodded slowly; his eyes contained a hunter's gleam. "Tell me more of what you know."

"Oh!" Fauchelevent boggled momentarily. It had been quite a while since anyone had expressed genuine interest. "Well. Have you considered how he never attends a salon - never accepts an invitation, though the same men and women would have laughed in his face but a year ago? And for good reason too, his dress is atrocious, and he speaks like a common laborer. I think it is suspicious, monsieur, that Madeleine should come from such low birth, but still have the money to buy the jet factory and become quite so rich..."

 

There had not been much opportunity before to find himself in the company of Inspector Javert, and Fauchelevent could not have predicted that he would come to be one of his remaining listeners, and certainly the most invested and interested. In fact, after a while, Javert would call upon him, rather than the other way around, to inquire about Madeleine's actions as of late. As Fauchelevent had little access to Madeleine's personal life their conversations tended to consist of one part possible fact and nine parts conjecture and aggravation.

"Is it not suspicious, monsieur," Fauchelevent said, stepping nimbly around a puddle, "that no one knows of Monsieur Madeleine's - family life?"

Javert's face remained impassive, but he nodded. "He made inquiries earlier into a family that lived in Faverolles. I believe, though, that he did not find what he sought."

"Who in the world could they be?"

Javert shrugged.

"Perhaps he left them behind," Fauchelevent said. "Perhaps there are small Madeleines, and a Madame to whom he must send money."

Javert let out a short, humorless noise, a crooked smile lifting his lips. "He keeps himself quite chaste."

Fauchelevent nudged him in the side. "He is only a man, you know."

Javert said nothing. Rarely did his reticence ever deter Fauchelevent from continuing to expound upon his myriad doubts and suspicions of Monsieur Madeleine but there was something strange here, a pondering, somewhat unsure air to Javert's silence. "Yes," Javert said at last, and they continued on their way.


	3. Chapter 3

Their meetings grew less frequent. The seasons passed, the wheels of Fauchelevent's cart dug heavy furrows into the mud and the horse grew bony and thin-coated. Fauchelevent, too, went through winter with little to shield himself from the wind and rain. His joints swelled in the cold. His age pressed upon him with a dull certainty, and resentment prickled within him like seething water. He ran out of snuff, and then the money with which to buy snuff.

He saw Javert now and then - leaning against the wall, face hidden between his collar and his hat, watching. But nothing new came of it. Madeleine's success continued to new heights, and riches came streaming into the town.

It was by mere chance that Fauchelevent happened to be there on the day that the Bishop of Digne's death was announced, when Madeleine passed by - all in mourning black, his hat black-banded, an expression of sincere grief upon his face. And it was by that same chance that Javert was there, too - standing stark and still, imposing, watching.

Fauchelevent moved to cross the street to Javert's side, but something gave him pause; though he was not very perceptive by nature, his years had granted him some better ability, and so he watched Javert watch Madeleine, watched the harsh hunger burning hot in Javert's eyes, and thought: Oh.

Madeleine continued on his way, rounding the corner and vanishing from sight, and Fauchelevent turned, busying himself with the tack of his horse, his mind racing. Could it be that he had only seen the fervor of a man intent on rooting out the truth, one who saw, as he did, reason to suspect Monsieur Madeleine? Or did Javert watch for something else - what was it he sought in the lines of Madeleine's body, the calm expression and sad eyes?

Fauchelevent was not given much time to mull this over. Only a few moments after Madeleine had disappeared from view, a hand fell on his shoulder, and Javert said, "Come with me,"

"I believe I know who Madeleine is." Javert was very close, his hands hard on Fauchelevent's shoulders, his breath hot on Fauchelevent's face. There was an almost frightening exhilaration in his voice. "Yes - if it is he, then that would explain it - the Savoyards, the limp - and no one has seen his passport!" A horrible sound, a contortion of the face; Fauchelevent realized after a moment that Javert was laughing. "I think we have him now," he said, and the terrifying ecstasy in his eyes

"Inspector," Fauchelevent began- but by then Javert had straightened up once more, arranging his coat about himself before reaching into his pocket.

"Good day, Fauchelevent," he said, and took two pinches of snuff.

 

That was the last time he and Javert saw each other until the day that there was mud all around and blood in his mouth and an immense, inconceivable weight on his chest, snatches of words coming to him through the pain and the horrible creaking of the cart above him as it settled further upon his ribs - every breath agony, his knee a shattered and fiery ball of pain, despair hot in his throat. And then the unbelievable: the fine fabric of a coat dragging in the mud, a shout - "Quick! Help!" and Fauchelevent knew that voice, it was the same that he had disdained as halting, uncultured, unmannerly - but it brought with it the gasping, miraculous relief of pressure lifted, and Fauchelevent sucked in breath after breath, hardly caring about the pain it caused his ribs.

He lay at Monsieur Madeleine's feet and kissed his knees, hardly knowing what he said, only that he meant it with all his heart, newly opened to what he had previously seen and disdained - the charity, the kindness -

And behind him, there was always Javert, watching.

 

He did not have cause to think of Javert for a very long time after that.

 

(Years later, Madeleine said, "Fauchelevent," voice grave and halting, eyes fixed on the opposite wall, "there is - something I must tell you."

Fauchelevent brought his hand to Madeleine's knee and squeezed; the familiar gesture normally brought smiles to both their faces, but this time Madeleine's mouth only twitched slightly, before he turned away. Fauchelevent frowned. "What is it, brother?"

"I -" Madeleine took a deep breath and bit his lip; there was an agony of indecision on his face. "It is in regards to my past."

"Oh!" Fauchelevent blinked; Madeleine had opened his mouth to say more, but he continued: "Monsieur, if it is about your limp, or the Bishop of Digne, or why you give money to Savoyards, or from where your money came, or your marksmanship, or or why you spoke like a peasant - pardon me - when you first came to Montreuil, well."

He paused, glancing at Madeleine. Madeleine's jaw hung slightly open. "Well, it is none of my concern, whatever it is," he finished lamely, "and in any case, I do not care.")


End file.
